Tears of the Bat
by Dogbreathsan
Summary: Batman suffers a loss. The implications rattle him, or, at least, surprise him. Rated Teen for mild language, not-so-mild themes.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: A few thoughts on The Bat. It's been done before, it'll be done again. Doesn't matter, it'll still be true. I hope you enjoy, or, at least, get to thinking a bit._

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of Batman, Joker, Clark Kent, Harley Quinn, Dick Grayson or the Commissioner. I really even don't own the characters I came up with. These characters all belong to the DC Comics universe and their media group. I'm just borrowing them to work through a realization I had about or two protagonists._

**Tears of the Bat**

Another day in the Arkham Asylum. Assorted criminal crazies lounged in the rec room. Joker regarded his fellow inmates with mild amusement. None were his equal, but he was certain they all felt the same way towards all their fellow inmates, himself included. The thought caused him to suddenly laugh out loud, an action that caused some of his fellows to regard him warily. The rest? They just ignored him. Joker was always laughing for no apparent reason. That sonofabitch is crazy, after all. They continued their game of euchre.

Harley Quinn flopped down on the sofa next to the Joker. She didn't say anything, she just wanted to be near her main squeeze. She picked up a seven-year-old magazine off the table bolted to the floor in front of the sofa. Oh look! Brad and Angelina have adopted another child! Isn't that sweet?

Joker sat there, at ease, not really thinking of anything. Then, a noise down the hall. A shout. Another shout. A bellow of rage, completely inarticulate. Ho hum… another day in Arkham Asylum.

Wait… another shout, more voices this time. Another bellow. A loud SLAM! followed by a tearing, crunching sound. Joker sat up; this might be amusing. More shouts, and, alarm bells. Yes! Things were decidedly getting interesting. Another crunch followed by a scream of terror or pain – or both. More alarms – the major disturbance alarm. The card players didn't look up, continued to deal cards.

The inmates were _supposed_ to return to their rooms when the major disturbance alarm sounded; nobody ever did. Why make life easy for the screws, after all? Joker laughed at an idea. Maybe he _would_ return to his room like a good little do-bee. He pulled out his day planner just to be sure of something. Yep, his breakout attempt wasn't until next month. Not his concern.

Joker stood up, he was going to do it, he was going to freak out the guards and go to his room. Oh, what a laugh that will be! They will be _sooo_ certain he's up to something. He entered the hall, he could see a group of armed guards fighting with, well, he really couldn't tell who was under all the blue uniforms. Whoever it was, they were putting up a good fight. Some of the more nervous guards were standing around the periphery of the scrum, weapons drawn, faces intent on the altercation. Joker cackled a laugh at their concentration, their fear. He turned his back on the dogpile, headed towards his room. The fight continued, maybe even intensified. He smiled at the thought of maybe a successful breakout happening. That was always good for a laugh.

Joker heard the shot back towards the mess in the hall. He certainly didn't see it and he only barely felt the bullet enter the back of his skull before it exploded out his forehead. After that, he felt nothing at all ever again.

The Police Commissioner finished his cigarette, tossing it to his feet to grind it out. He reached into his coat to pull out a rapidly diminishing pack to light another. He took a drag.

A voice from the shadows. "Those things are bad for you. I thought you quit after your heart attack."

The Commissioner didn't start. Hell, after all these years he was used to the quiet comings and goings. He turned to meet the voice, taking another drag on the cigarette. "They help calm me down" he said. "It's either these, or I overeat, which also puts the strain on my heart. Either way, I'm screwed. With these, "another drag, "I remain functional."

"Hmmph." The caped man in the shadows didn't sound particularly convinced. "You've been here a while, haven't you?"

The Commissioner knew better than to try to hide anything from this man, but he tried anyway. "What makes you think that?" Another drag on the cigarette.

Batman stepped out of the shadows into the gloom around the brightness of the Bat Signal. "There are 10 or 12 cigarette butts there at your feet. At 2-3 minutes per cigarette, you've been here 20 or 30 minutes. The Bat Signal has been on for only 5 minutes. You spent time thinking about something, something that is troubling you, before you lit the Bat signal. So, what is it, Commissioner?"

Another drag; that cigarette was done. Drop the butt to his feet, grind it out with his foot, reach for another. Light it, another drag.

"I never could pull one over on you, Batman" the Commissioner said.

"Again, Commissioner, what is it?"

A sigh, another drag. "It's Joker."

"I see. I'll get over to Arkham Asylum and get on his trail. When did he escape? Did any one get hurt in his escape?" Batman moved to the edge of the roof, preparing to jump off into the night.

"Batman, he didn't escape." Another drag, Batman turned to face the Commissioner. "He's dead. Joker is dead." Batman stood totally still, totally straight, totally silent.

Finally, "You're sure? It isn't some trick or ploy?" The voice was… off.

Another drag. "No, it was just a stupid, stupid accident. There was an altercation that escalated to a major disturbance. Joker wasn't even involved. He was just nearby when there was the discharge of a weapon." Another drag on the cigarette. "He was killed instantly. Bullet went in the back of his skull and out the forehead. Bam. Dead. He probably didn't even know what hit him, didn't know he was dead." Another drag on the cigarette.

A long silence. The Commissioner finished his current cigarette but refrained from lighting another. Batman regarded the Commissioner in silence. Then, he turned and again made for the edge of the roof and the parapet. "Thank you, Commissioner" he said as he vaulted over the parapet and into the night. The voice was still… off.

The Commissioner sighed, reached into his coat for another cigarette, but the pack was empty. Damn. The crazy sonofabitch was dead, and he was out of smokes. This night just got better and better.

People tend to think of morgues as terrible places but in truth they can have a quiet grace at certain times. Late at night – early in the morning, when the lights are subdued, the 'work' of the day done, most of the staff gone home to their lives, with just the quiet hum of ballast transformers for the fluorescent lights and the compressors of the refrigerators, a morgue can almost seem a holy place. No one ever _dies_ in a morgue – they are already dead when they get here, or they wouldn't be here. So there is little in the way of psychic residue the way, say, a hospital room or a crime scene will have. There is, in its way, an almost cathedral-like quality to a morgue, in the deep of the night.

Batman searched the labels on the doors to the drawers of the morgue refrigerator, searching, searching… Ah! There. **JOKER**. No name, just Joker. He had a name, but it was lost to history. In his infamy, this was all the name he needed. Batman opened the door and pulled the tray out, his gloves insulating his hands from the cold of the tray-latch.

Gotham still used sheets instead of body-bags; they were cheaper. Batman lifted the sheet to regard the body on the tray. The pale-white face was even paler in death, slack and, well, lifeless. Gone was the manic grin. The eyes were cloudy, slightly sunken from being dehydrated by the refrigerator. The hair was green. The hole in his forehead was large. It wasn't a morbid curiosity that had Batman reach for the Batlight and flick it on, shining the bright light into the hole in Joker's forehead. A mass of congealed blood and brain tissue was visible, looking for all the world like a cherry jello- chopped ham mold gone bad. Raising the sheet higher, Batman looked at the rest of the body. The Y-shaped incision had been sewn shut using a baseball stitch rather than a cosmetic-surgery hidden stitch. Perfectly serviceable and appropriate, but somehow wrong to Batman's sensibilities. The muscles of the chest, abdomen and arms were toned but slack in death, the fine hairs of the chest more grey than green. The mound of pubic hair just visible was… grey? Also?

A slight noise. A voice behind him. "The crazy sonofabitch needed to die."

Batman let the sheet fall, and turned to the voice. He had recognized it, but seeing the man confirmed the identity, the Chief Medical Examiner for the city.

"Maybe" Batman replied, turning to push the tray back into the refrigerator. "But not like that." Batman closed the door to the refrigerator. More softly, "Not like that."

"Oh, I don't know. As a death goes, at least it was quick." The CME walked over to a desk in the corner of the room, away from the refrigerator bank. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. He poured some, bourbon by the smell reaching Batman's nose, into one glass and offered the bottle to Batman. Batman signaled in the negative, the CME shrugged, capped the bottle. He picked up his glass and took a moderate sip.

"He was going to die soon anyway" the CME continued.

"Oh?" was all Batman said.

"Yep. Cancer of the pancreas, mets to the liver, one suspicious lesion on his spine in the survey x-ray." Another sip. "Dead man walking, as it were. He had no symptoms so it would have progressed too far for us to really do anything by the time he did get around to having symptoms. The bullet spared him some time of truly nasty pain, truly nasty surgical and chemotherapy interventions that, in the end, would have had him exactly where he is now. The crazy sonofabitch."

Batman regarded the doctor. The doctor gazed off into the far distance, not really seeing anything, sipping his drink. A long silence followed.

"He killed my brother and his family, you know." Another sip.

"Did he? He killed many." Batman replied, voice trailing off. "Far too many..."

"Yes, that he did." The doctor continued, "My niece Jenna was his actual, direct victim. She was killed in 1999 along with Gordon's wife. She wanted to be a doctor… she was 12 at the time; she'd be finishing medical school about now. She wanted to be a family practice doctor." Another sip. "Her death devastated my brother and his wife. He started drinking, she became withdrawn and depressed." Another sip. "She finally killed herself, walked in front of a bus." A long silence. "Her death, coupled with the loss of Jenna, drove Carl deeper into the bottle. I tried to intervene, but you can't help those who don't want to be helped. Carl died in a single-car drunk-driving accident. No one else was hurt. Well, no one else but me." A long drink, draining the glass. "I did his autopsy. Heh… funny."

"What is funny, doctor?" Batman couldn't move, wrapped in the man's pain as he was. He had to stay and let the man finish, no matter the cost to himself.

"Carl was on the same tray as Joker now resides on. Kind of full circle, isn't it?"

Batman was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry, doctor. He impacted a lot of people in this city."

The doctor looked at the bottle on his desk for a moment before picking it up and placing it back in the desk along with the glasses. "That he did, the crazy sonofabitch, that he did…" Turning back to Batman he… but Batman was gone.

Gotham wasn't known for its bright, sunny days. No, this was one of the 'typical' Gotham days. Cold, but not bone-chillingly so; overcast but not dark-as-night; a slight wind coming off the bay with its taint of iodine and decay; a threat of rain, or at least mist. Yes, a fine Gotham day. A fine, appropriate day for a funeral.

Clark Kent was there, representing the Daily Planet as a reporter, in part, but more importantly to be there for the man who just may be his best friend. His best friend on this, or several, worlds. Kent wondered how his friend would appear, for appear he would.

The casket was actually rather nice, as was the plot it would occupy for the rest of, well, forever. With a start, Kent recognized just what lay in proximity, who was buried just over the small rise behind the grave. Just what the hell did _that_ mean?

A police caravan approached through the surprisingly large – and growing – crowd at the periphery of the area, softly sounding the siren to get the crowd's attention, to get them to move off the roadway. A _very_ nice limousine followed the police caravan.

Kent continued to watch as the police caravan, and the limousine, came to a stop, not too far from the gravesite. Fully two dozen heavily armed police SWAT officers got out and rapidly set up a cordon. From a distance, four police helicopters could be seen to approach and then set up a perimeter, keeping station about a half-mile out in a rough square, several hundred feet up. After the police presence had settled itself a woman police officer got out of the caravan, followed by a prisoner in bright orange and both leg and arm shackles. Last to exit the caravan was the Police Commissioner himself. He and the policewoman escorted the prisoner to the chairs at the graveside. Kent saw that the prisoner was Harleen Quinzel.

Two men exited the limousine. A young, very athletic and athletically-moving man and a middle-aged man, both drudged up the slight incline to the graveside. Ahhh… so that is how his friend chose to reveal himself. The two men approached Kent.

"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Grayson," Kent greeted the two men.

"Kent." The elder man greeted the reporter; the younger man stuck out a hand, "How are you, Clark?"

Kent took the proffered hand. "I'm well Dick. How's the Old Man here doing?" The older man glared at the reporter.

Dick grinned at the reporter and regarded the older man warmly. "Oh about usual" he answered. "An enigma wrapped in a conundrum, tied up with a nice paradoxical bow." The elder man turned his glare towards Dick. He finally spoke. "I'm going to talk to the Commissioner and Harley. You coming?" With that he strode to the chairs at the graveside.

Harley Quinn, to put a not-too-fine point on the subject, was a mess. She was devoid of any of her usual makeup; she could be seen to be a reasonably attractive woman approaching her middle years. Her eyes were red and puffy but her face was washed. Her hair was combed back into a bun, the rare stray hair blowing in the slight breeze. Gone was the animation that usually marked her presence. She was, surprisingly enough, almost demure. She sat looking at the hole that was to be the final resting place for Joker, not speaking. As the trio of men approached she looked up but said nothing.

"Dr. Quinzel" Bruce Wayne said to the woman, "I am sorry for your loss."

"Are you? Are you really, Mr. Wayne? After all the trouble Joker caused you? After all the times he tried to kill you? Are you really sorry for my loss?" Her voice rose as she said this, a tinge of mania manifesting around the edges. Then, seeming to have spent all the energy she had available she hung her head. Silent tears began to fall.

"Yes," Bruce Wayne answered her, softly. "Yes, I am…" but the crying woman took no heed. Kent, the Commissioner and Dick Grayson did.

"Mr. Wayne," the Commissioner said, "Thank you again for donating the burial plot and for using your connections to have the funereal to go forward." Harley Quinn looked up a at the billionaire. "You did this?"

Bruce Wayne looked at the woman. "Somehow Potter's Field didn't seem right. That, and all the protests and threats had the funeral homes in the city afraid to receive… him. It wasn't seemly. I just used my influence to get it done."

A quiet "Oh" from the woman, she continued to look at the grave. "Thank you. Mr. J would have been upset at the protests, but he'd be amused at your stepping in to help." She looked up at Bruce Wayne. "Thank you, Mr. W." She looked at the grave again. Bruce Wayne nodded an acknowledgement to her bowed head and walked behind the chairs to stand. Kent and Dick Grayson accompanied him.

The preacher, police chaplain really – no self-respecting religious man in the city would officiate at _this_ funeral, approached the funeral party, said a few words to the Commissioner and then approached the casket. The police chaplain approached the head of the grave and cleared his throat. The service began.

Bruce Wayne listened to the man drone on, not really paying attention. He was looking at, well; he wasn't really looking at anything. He stared ahead, not focused on anything, remembering… remembering…

The judge banged his gavel. "Order, please. Counselor, you may continue."

The lawyer faced the man in the witness seat. "Doctor, will you please introduce yourself and state your credentials?" She asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I am Dr. Thaddeus B. Freung. I am a forensic psychiatrist as well as a psychiatrist in private practice in Gotham City. I have been affiliated with Arkham Asylum for eleven years. I am an adjunct professor of Psychiatry and abnormal psychology at Gotham University, have been for some 15 years."

"You have considerable experience with criminals and criminal psychology?" the lawyer questioning him continued.

"Yes, ma'am. Along with my medical degree from Harvard I also have a doctorate in psychology from Harvard, again specializing in abnormal psychology. My residency in psychiatry was in affiliation with a locked unit in Massachusetts again with an emphasis in forensic psychology and forensic psychiatry. I also worked with the state police in my capacity as a forensic psychiatrist in hospitals throughout the state."

"So you have considerable experience in assessing the psychology and psychiatric state of criminals?"

"Yes, ma'am. I've not thought about it recently…" a pause. "It would be some 27 years now, in total, between my time in Massachusetts and Gotham."

"Doctor, have you examined and assessed the defendant, the man known as Joker?"

"Yes ma'am, I have."

"And is that man here in this courtroom? Can you point him out to the court?"

"Yes ma'am. He is the green-haired, paper-white faced man seated at the defendant's table," pointing at Joker, seated as described.

"And doctor, would you please share your assessment with the court?"

"Yes, ma'am. He, Joker, is one crazy sonofabitch."

Uproar in the court. "Objection!" from the prosecuting attorney.

"Sustained" the judge said, banging his gavel a few times before pointing the gavel at the woman questioning Joker. "Counselor, control your witness. I'll not have a mis-trial on the piddling technicality that your witness mis-characterized your defendant."

"Your honor, I am as shocked as you at the phrasing of the testimony" the woman said unflinchingly to the judge. "But, I cannot argue the point that my client is, indeed, a crazy sonofabitch."

The judge banged his gavel again; the court again was in an uproar.

Batman, in disguise as a reporter, joined the throng of his erstwhile brother reporters as they exited the courtroom to file their stories.

"Bruce" a tug at his sleeve. Bruce Wayne returned from his reverie. Dick Grayson regarded his former warder closely. "Bruce, the service is over…" he said. Bruce Wayne looked at his former ward and nodded. Clark Kent looked on, a worried frown on his face. The Commissioner was talking to one of his lieutenants; something about a guard on the grave to prevent desecration and vandalism.

Dr. Harley Quinzel stood next to the casket, her hands on the wood caressingly, tears again – still? – streaming gently down her cheeks. Bruce Wayne walked forward, reaching into his coat, pulled out a white chrysanthemum. He placed the flower gently on the casket, his hand lingering on the wood for a moment. He then turned to walk up the small rise of the hill the gravesite was on, towards a large gravestone.

Bruce Wayne walked up to the gravestone. He reached again into his coat, this time removing a single rose. This he laid on the gravestone inscribed **WAYNE ****THOMAS – MARTHA**. He stood a moment, head bowed. He turned to leave. The threatened mist turned into a light drizzle.

The night was dark, as nights are wont to be. But this was a Gotham night, a night where shadows are inkier, deeper, somehow more threatening. Lights were visible, but the light seemed to huddle in amongst itself, afraid to venture out into that threatening dark, as if afraid to peer into those shadows for what it might see, that is, if light were an actual entity capable of such emotions.

Batman stood on a rooftop, as Batman was wont to do. He looked across the street to a window barely lit against the night, pushing back the gloom for a short span. Batman came to a decision, shot a cable across the street to a projection on the building opposite and swung across the street. Landing lightly on the very slight ledge that circled the building, he peered through the window into the room. A tastefully furnished sitting room, it appeared. Books lined one wall, pictures and diplomas on another. A sofa… no, a chaise longue with a leather-upholstered armchair nearby, both well-worn but of a high quality to bear the wear well. Seated at the desk that completed the furnishings of the room was a woman in her middle years, writing in a journal, a drink close at hand. Finishing the sentence or thought she was writing, she took a drink, then stood. She came to the window, opened it. "Won't you come in, Batman?" she said, stepping back.

"You knew I was there?" Batman said, entering the room.

"I saw the movement reflected in the picture on my desk. We're seven floors up. It was either you, or some idiot burglar. I took the chance it was you. If it wasn't you, well, I would have dealt with the problem." Her left hand went into a slash pocket of her skirt and withdrew a small handgun, then returned the weapon to her pocket.

"You could well be a detective, doctor" Batman said.

The woman snorted a small laugh. "I'm a psychiatrist… next best thing." She turned to her desk, picked up her drink and took a sip. She made an offer to Batman who shook his head no. "And how may I help the Dark Knight this dark night?" she asked, a small smile at her witticism.

"I… don't rightfully know, doctor."

"You'd be surprised how often I hear that" the woman said.

"Yes. Well, maybe I should be leaving…"

"You'd be surprised how often I hear _that_, especially after I hear the first." She walked over to the armchair, sat. "Won't you have a seat, Batman?"

"No, I'd prefer to stand, doctor."

"And _that_ is the third most frequent thing I hear. Very well, then, Batman. May I presume to start, to help you start? You are troubled, but you may not completely know how or by what. Something… something isn't right. Maybe by talking to someone – me, maybe – you can help identify what isn't right. But, in any regard, you are not able to go on as you are now; you cannot use your well-known intellect without the mirror of some other person to help you see what you cannot now see. Close?"

Batman regarded the woman for a long moment, then came to stand by the chaise, to stand in front of the psychiatrist. "Yes" he said softly.

"And is there a name associated with this feeling?"

"Yes" still softly. "Joker" he added.

"Oh. My" the doctor said, standing to walk over to her desk to retrieve her drink. She returned to the armchair, drink in hand, sat again.

"Progress" she said. Taking a sip "You _are_ aware there is a certain amount of notoriety in forensic psychiatry circles regarding you, your motivations and your relations with your villainous adversaries?"

"Yes, I am aware these exist. I give them little thought" Batman replied.

"You've not read any?" At his head shake in the negative she continued, "Really? Then you're not the narcissistic egoist some paint you to be."

"That's why I don't read such. How can they purport to analyze me without actually interviewing me?" Batman replied with maybe a touch of heat.

"Because it is true that actions speak louder than words, Batman. Your actions are public record, available for scrutiny, available for interpretation." She held up a hand to forestall his retort. "Yes, I appreciate that _interpretation_ is colored by the individual interpreter's background, biases, prejudices. I agree with you, as such they are without great merit. Which is not to say they without _any_ merit."

She continued. "Joker, now. He is, or was, no… still _is_ interesting."

"How so, doctor?"

A large drink this time. "What do you call the emotion, Batman, when a person spends all their time thinking about another person? What do you call the emotion, that a person who spends much … most… all of their emotional capital trying to get the attention and regard of another person. What do you call the emotion, of a person who rushes out to show another person what they have accomplished?"

Batman was silent for a moment. "I don't know" he finally said.

"The technical term we in health care use for this emotion is 'love'" another drink, finishing the glass.

"And?"

"You don't get it what I'm going for here? Joker… he loved you, in his own dysfunctional, crazy sonofabitch way. He just had a sucky way of showing it."

"Doctor, are you drunk?"

"One drink, Batman. No I'm not drunk. Your coming here has caused some thoughts to jell, 'tho." She stood again, walked to her desk and placed the glass on the desk. She picked up the picture on the desk, regarded it for a moment. "My husband, Joseph", she said, voice soft. She replaced the picture on her desk, turned to regard Batman. "He was killed by Joker, the Joker venom incident. Joker was showing off, you know. Joker truly was the narcissist I said you were. He was showing off… for you."

"For… me?" the Caped Crusader said, softly.

"How else can you describe it? Oh, yes, it met _his_ needs but for whom did he rush out and all but shout 'Look what I did!' Who, but you, has he baited all these years? For whom, but you, has he always laid these elaborate traps?"

"But he's tried to kill me so many times…"

"So? The crazy sonofabitch was a genius yet he _always_ left some loophole for you to exploit. _Always_. If he hadn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Look, to a very large extent you two defined each other. You were responsible for him becoming 'Joker' even. You define yourself largely in terms of "Joker is out there, I must stop him' or something like that. Now, he is dead. What are you left with, with which to define yourself? No one, not a single one of your other villainous adversaries, comes close to Joker in sheer intellect. Or malice. He kept you on your toes, kept the mental juices flowing. He gave you a reason to be, well, continue being."

Batman slowly sat on the edge of the chaise, silent. After a long moment, "Can it be said that I was the cause of all the deaths he caused? That, had I not been there, he wouldn't have killed?"

The doctor thought for a moment. "Yes, it can be said, but without any real justification. Joker was a crazy sonofabitch. He would have done everything he did without you. No, I think it _can_ be said that you limited his depredations, limited the deaths, stopped or at least recovered much of what he stole. You were his real audience, because he loved you, in his sick, twisted, depraved and dysfunctional way."

Batman sat for a few moments, utterly still, utterly silent. Then, in a smooth movement he stood and started for the still-open window. "Thank you, doctor. You've helped me see things differently."

"You're welcome, Batman. Be well. Come back anytime, my window is always open," but he was gone into the night.

Sunset in Gotham City is much like sunset anywhere; the sun sinks in the west and night falls with the fading light. But in Gotham City it seems as if the city itself takes a deep breath and holds it in anticipation, dread really, anxiously awaiting the return of the sun in the east to dispel the evil spell of the lightless time.

Tonight, evening really, had the sun painting the bottoms a violent crimson. Somehow fitting, Batman thought, as he stood contemplating the grave in front of him. Violent crimson was a theme also associated with Joker. A light rain began to fall with the continued fading of the light. Batman looked at the gravestone. Engraved in the stone was simply **J****OKER**. Batman thought to himself that the Commissioner was going to have to increase the guard, or at least remind them, forcefully, to be more diligent, for someone had scrawled across the stone "_who's laughing now you crazy sonofabitch" _in permanent marker. That it may have been the police guard who had defaced the gravestone didn't bear thinking.

Batman stood, thinking about what Joker had meant to him through the years. After a bit, he withdrew a white chrysanthemum from the secret pocket of his cape, and laid it on the plinth supporting the stone, brushing the dried stems of other wilted chrysanthemums away. He lifted his face to the rain, allowing the rain to wash away his tears.

With a deep breath, Batman pulled his cape about himself, and turned towards his city. It was time for patrol; he had a city to protect.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I've been asked for more Batman/Joker stories. I'd have thought I put paid to the Joker with the last, but there seem to be many who disagree. So, let's do a little escape-hatch building…_

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of Batman, Joker or Harley Quinn - even if it is an implied Harley - or any of the other characters I mention in passing. These characters all belong to the DC Comics universe and their media group. I'm just borrowing them. I'll put 'em back where I found them. Honest._

**EPILOG**

She missed him.

O Gawd, how she missed him.

His sneering laugh, his manic laugh, his belly laugh – all his laughs, really. She missed those. His touch, his caress, his hitting her; OK, that last, not so much. That was pretty dysfunctional but that sort of dysfunction is expected from a criminal genius like him. Not that she liked it - she really hated the hitting - but she put up with it for _him_, the totality that he was. Her friend. Her boyfriend. Her Boss.

But, now he was gone. "An accident" they called it, like anything _ever_ happened by accident around _him_. Oh sure, it _looked_ like an accident. The guard was still on administrative leave, which means only that he gets to sit at home and get full pay. He didn't have to suffer like she did, with her heart all broken and everything. He got to watch game shows and drink beer. And get paid. Bastard.

Oh, she'd pay him, alright. How do the Klingons say it? Revenge is a dish best served cold? She'd be cold, colder than even Mr. Freeze over there, playing cards with Riddler and Harvey.

He'd come back from administrative leave, soon enough… soon enough. She'd be cold, indifferent at first. Yes, even hurt at his presence. He'd be all apologetic and nice… Yesss… That would be it. Play the "I've been hurt card." Slowly warm up to him; slowly build to the usual – maybe even friendly – guard-inmate relationship. Then, she'd rip out his heart and piss in the hole. Literally. Then he'd see what heartache really is.

But… that wasn't enough, was it? The guard, he was just the tool. He pulled the trigger, sure, but who aimed the gun?

Gotham? No, don't be silly. Gotham is a thing. Gotham was _his_ toy. Gotham was where he had his greatest triumphs.

And his biggest failure.

That failure had a name, now, didn't it?

Yes. Yes, it did.

Batman.

Bats… _he_ did it. He put _him_ in this hole. He put _him_ where _he_ could be killed. Bats was every bit the chess player _he_ was – maybe better, she had to admit to herself as _he_ was dead… and Batman wasn't.

She'd have to do something about that unsymmetrical state of affairs, now wouldn't she?


End file.
